The Kaldemar Empire was never silent, not even at dawn.Along the road that linked the Imperial Palace to the western front, at a midline supply checkpoint, soldiers lined up for inspection.They checked the cargo carts, examined wheels grinding against dirt, and listened as the steady rhythm of iron horseshoes pierced the morning stillness.

  Inside one of those carriages, a man draped in a dark grey coat sat quietly, gazing out the window.

  He had barely passed his twentieth year, yet his face bore the kind of stillness found only in old portraits.Well-shaped features, solemn eyes of a deep shade, and a faint scar tracing his left cheek like a deliberate crack across porcelain.At his shoulder, a red-stitched epaulette.At his chest, a small, restrained emblem—the insignia of the Imperial House, so subtle it could be missed.He said nothing. Moved little.But the silence he emanated had a weight, a cold pressure that could freeze the air inside the carriage itself.

  He understood what this journey meant.This wasn’t simply a commander’s appointment—it was a final test.A chance to strip off the label of “bastard,” once and for all.He would speak through action and command alone—so no one could question the blood he bore.

  He had already proven himself once—during the Balthur Rebellion.He had moved before words, acted before orders, and severed his enemies’ breath before their knees had a chance to buckle.Since that day, some had stopped calling him the emperor’s bastard. They called him Commander.

  And now, he was en route to the western front as the newly appointed leader of the 3rd Division Strike Force.He would write his name again—this time, in his own script.

  The carriage stopped at the checkpoint.When the door opened, a man in a black uniform stepped down, red epaulettes catching the light.He did not hesitate.The soldiers nearby reacted with mixed eyes—rigid in stance, but flickering with doubt beneath the surface.Some broke eye contact the moment he looked at them, as though he had read their unspoken thoughts.

  He ignored it all, walking calmly toward the command tent.At its entrance, a waiting officer saluted.

  “Commander, welcome to the western front.”

  Without slowing, he replied:

  “Words are enough for welcome.”

  His voice was low and firm, every word weighted like an oath.Inside the command tent, the first thing he did was spread out the operation map.A shadow of silence fell as he spoke:

  “This front is important.But what matters more—is who I become here.”

  He examined the battlefield, checked logistics, scanned troop rosters.The officers struggled to keep pace with his assessments.He expected no judgments based on blood or birth—only merit.

  One officer finally spoke, hesitantly:

  “Commander… was this appointment endorsed by the throne?”

  He shook his head.

  “The throne may give a seat.But a name—I’ll make that myself.”

  From that day forward, his name slowly began to carry weight within the camp.He spoke little now, but he was ready to draw his sword.

  One day, someone would surely ask,“Why did he go so far?”

  And by then, they would understand—His ambition was never just about a position.It aimed far beyond. Twilight seeped into the sky outside the northern command center of the Empire’s 3rd Army.

  In a meeting room dimly lit by oil lamps, the glow from the windows bathed the curtains in faded crimson. A heavy wooden table stood in the center, maps spread across its surface, worn edges pinned down by metal markers.

  Issar, now addressed as a commander—though still a topic of contention in the Empire’s inner circles—sat quietly, waiting for the door to open.

  He was no longer just a bastard. He had begun to earn a name.

  The first to enter was Count Bernard de Lacaste, a noble of military blood, whose family served as a key liaison between the Empire’s heart and its northern front.

  “You’re always early, Commander,” Bernard said as he took his seat.

  Issar gave a curt nod.

  “In battle, a late order weighs heavier than blood.”

  Bernard chuckled faintly.

  “If only politics moved by such orders—we’d all be generals.”

  Soon after, another figure entered: Baron Kerena, heir to a central noble family. His title was mostly ceremonial, but his family's reach extended deep into the corridors of power.

  He offered a formal handshake.

  “The Balthur Rebellion,” he said, “you quelled it with admirable efficiency. We all know how difficult it is to end chaos quietly.”

  As he poured wine into a glass, he added:

  “Two noble houses dissolved, three fiefs absorbed. Word spread through the Palace before the ink dried—fascinating, isn’t it?”

  Issar simply nodded.

  “It wasn’t without blood. But I spilled no unnecessary blood.”

  Bernard’s brows furrowed.

  “‘Unnecessary’ is a matter of perspective. And you’re aware there are those who weren’t pleased with the outcome.”

  Issar did not respond. His expression remained calm, posture unshaken.

  The door opened once more.

  The last to arrive was Sir Iolen, an inspector from the Ecclesiastical Assembly. Clad in a silver-inscribed uniform and gloves, he carried a sacred manuscript under his arm. He took his seat and bowed lightly.

  “May this meeting conclude under the order of the divine.”

  Bernard turned his gaze.

  “Order… These days it seems the temples enforce more of it than the military.”

  Kerena downed his glass and added:

  “Lately, it’s not the writer of the report that matters—but which temple declares it righteous.”

  Issar finally spoke:

  “The front is in a state of stalemate. The Republic has abandoned its advances and widened its defenses. Meanwhile, we’re bleeding forces between paperwork and politics.”

  Kerena narrowed his eyes.

  “Losses are sometimes a calculated indulgence, Commander. You must break the smaller stones to redirect the river.”

  Issar didn’t disagree.

  “That’s why we need results. Tangible ones. Not on parchment, but on the field.”

  Bernard scoffed.

  “So you mean to fight personally?”

  “My name still does not bear my will,” Issar answered, voice steady.

  “I follow orders now, but one day— I’ll be the one giving them.”

  Iolen raised his head.

  “A noble ambition. May it not stray from the path of divine providence.”

  Issar met his eyes.

  “Providence is what men interpret. Those who’ve walked the battlefield know—death comes not from gods, but from poor judgment.”

  Iolen’s eyes flickered—just barely.

  The meeting drew to a close.

  Bernard rose from his chair.

  “Whether your deeds serve the emperor or someone else's cause… time will tell.”

  Kerena drained his glass with a smirk.

  “Stay alive, Commander. Dead ideals don’t get remembered.”

  By the door, Iolen offered a final word:

  “The divine watches all lives—no matter the flag they serve under.”

  Then he stepped out.

  Left alone, Issar stood before the map once more. A single red stone marked a position. He didn’t move it. Not yet.

  He simply waited— for the direction, the momentum, and the one decision that would determine everything. In a room known as the Black Velvet Hall, located near the rear command post of the northern 3rd Imperial Army, a quiet, unofficial meeting was underway.

  On paper, it was labeled a “strategic document archive,” but in truth, it served as a private reception hall for the Empire’s upper nobility.

  Before a wide stone hearth, two men sat facing each other. One was Count Lacaste. The other, a noble draped in a crimson cloak, his identity unlisted. He was an unofficial envoy of the capital’s Noble Assembly.

  Thick velvet curtains muffled all outside sound.

  “The problem,” the Count said quietly, “is the commander. The bastard.”

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  The man in red swirled his glass and nodded.

  “Blood is blood. The question is—what legacy will that blood leave?”

  “The emperor has neither acknowledged nor denied him. No claim to succession. No formal standing.”

  “And that,” the red-cloaked noble replied, “is where opportunity lies.”

  “Used properly, he could become anyone’s spark.”

  The Count exhaled slowly.

  He’ll make a name on the battlefield, no doubt. But what matters… is whose name that glory is written under.”“Precisely. His honor need not be his own. Label it anonymous, then raise a different banner above it.”

  The red-cloaked man smiled into his glass.

  The Count’s voice dropped.

  “You mean to tie him into the Noble Assembly’s heir-regulation proposal?”

  “To be precise—we use him to steer the current. While everyone runs toward a single heir, we light a fire on the side path. And split the stream.”

  At that moment, a door at the back of the hall opened silently.

  A man stepped in, clad in a silver-inscribed uniform. Sir Iolen, inspector of the Ecclesiastical Assembly.

  “Forgive the delay. I came straight after processing the latest decrees.”

  The Count eyed him.

  “Must the Assembly involve itself in this?”

  Iolen hesitated, then said calmly:

  “His blood is impure. If such blood reaches the Empire’s core, the faithful will lose faith.”

  The red-cloaked noble gave a dry chuckle.

  “Surely one of your gods could stomach a bastard.”

  “Gods embrace all,” Iolen replied, “but not all are chosen to lead. What we can do… is light the fire beneath the chosen.”

  He sat down, folding his gloves.

  “Chaos, after all, brings direction. We must make him a current. And if that current flows not to the throne, but to the Church—”

  The three raised their glasses without another word.

  In the hearth’s glow, a nameless man’s victories were already being reshaped— into someone else’s cause, a holy tool, or the first flicker of noble revolt.

  And none of them cared what the man himself thought of it. At the forward command center of the 3rd Division, a quiet operations meeting was underway.

  Officers and aides entered in order, forming a line. Issar stood over the map spread across the table, his finger tracing the ridgeline.

  “The goal of this operation is clear,” he said. “We sever the Republic’s supply line. Specifically—Kaldern Pass.”

  He tapped the red line marked along the border.

  “Kaldern is the Republic’s most vital supply artery in the western front. A frontal assault would only bleed us dry. So we strike from the side.”

  One aide raised a hand.

  “Commander, the lowlands beneath the pass are marshland. Cavalry can’t traverse it. Even infantry would suffer heavy losses.”

  “That’s why we won’t go that way,” Issar replied, redirecting to another path. “Here. The Old Ridgeway. An obsolete transport route, removed from maps years ago. Collapsed gorge, they said. But terrain doesn’t lie.”

  “This path connects to Kaldern’s northeastern flank.”

  Silence fell among the officers.

  The Old Ridgeway had been off-limits since a landslide closed it years ago. Even scouts had been barred from entering.

  “That zone is officially sealed. It’s not even listed in royal transport records anymore.”

  “All the better,” Issar said. “They won’t be watching. We’ll pass through this route and cut their supplies from the rear. Three hundred elite troops. I’ll lead them myself.”

  He laid out a list.

  “Two hundred frontline infantry. Fifty archers. Fifty engineers and ambush support.”

  “These are the best of the 3rd Division. Handpicked for this mission.”

  Another officer spoke hesitantly.

  “Commander, if you lead from the front, it may place undue pressure on the ranks—”

  “Command isn’t done from behind a desk,” Issar said quietly. “My name will be written in blood, not ink.”

  No one asked further questions.

  At dawn, preparations moved in silence. Elite infantry readied swords and spears. Archers checked their bowstrings. Engineers coiled rope and secured hooks. Support teams packed sandbags and marked the invisible paths.

  Issar walked through the ranks, inspecting each soldier’s gear himself. He spoke little. But his eyes were sharp and swift, his presence alone enforcing discipline.

  His former adjutant approached and whispered:

  “Commander, the soldiers aren’t speaking. But… there’s a quiet unease.”

  Issar looked skyward.

  “It’s not the Ridgeway that troubles them. It’s the way they’re being watched.”

  The sky was faintly red. The darkness was pulling back from the horizon.

  “They’ll be fine. Fear doesn’t fade by orders. Only by survival.”

  North of the camp, cavalry lined up silently. Archers stood ready at their stations.

  Issar secured his scabbard and stepped forward before his men.

  He didn’t shout. But his voice was clear, low, and steady.

  “I do not give you orders.

  This battle bears your names, not mine.

  I will simply open the path— and draw my sword first.”

  A breath passed through the ranks. Neither dissent nor cheers.

  Only the sound of men preparing to follow.

  Issar mounted his horse. Slowly drew his blade. And spoke once more.

  “We return. There will be wounds. There may be loss.

  But nothing— must outweigh the name you carry.”

  “March.”

  One word cut through the morning mist. The stars had not yet touched the gorge.

  Fog crept low over the rocky floor. This was the entrance to the Old Ridgeway.

  Atop a cliff, Issar looked down in silence. It was too quiet. Too clean. Like someone had staged it to invite confidence.

  He unfolded the map and ran his finger over the terrain again.

  Something was off.

  Footsteps approached quietly from behind.

  “Commander,” whispered Ronen, his adjutant. “We’ve confirmed the approach.

  But there are no signs of sentries at the entrance.”

  Issar narrowed his eyes at the gorge below.

  Through the mist—leaves slightly flattened beneath the rocks. Scratches running against the natural lines of the stone.

  Someone had passed through here.

  “…They’re waiting for us,” Issar murmured.

  Ronen hesitated.

  “Are we going the right way… Issar?”

  Issar closed his eyes briefly—then nodded.

  “…Yes. Keep moving.”

  He scanned the gorge midpoint. Too pristine. The way the leaves were piled. A path made to be followed.

  He raised a hand.

  'Stop.'

  Silently, the troops froze. Archers spread into a half-circle formation.

  Among the kneeling soldiers, the fog seemed to ripple ever so slightly.

  “Do you feel that?” Ronen whispered.

  “The wind… it’s too consistent. It’s been blowing the same way from the ridge for minutes now.”

  Then— a glint of metal beneath the bushes on the far side.

  A bolt. Or a thrown spear.

  *Whsst—!* Steel sliced the darkness.

  The first arrow clanged off a breastplate. The second grazed a helmet—spilling blood. The third carved a scream from the air.

  “Ambush! Shields forward! Archers form up!” Ronen shouted.

  Soldiers moved in reflex.

  But Issar did not retreat.

  He gazed at the structure hidden in shadow.

  That wasn’t a supply depot. It was a forward post. A trap.

  “They lured us here.”

  He gave rapid orders.

  “Left flank—circle the ridge! Center—secure the gorge! Archers—maintain line of sight!

  Strike the heart of the ambush!”

  His men caught their breath—then surged forward.

  Issar drew his blade and led from the front.

  Boom—!

  A deafening crack echoed through the gorge.

  The left ridge collapsed.

  A rigged landslide crashed down—crushing four soldiers. One was buried beyond recognition.

  “Rocks! Move right! Smoke, now!”

  Issar grabbed a canister and hurled it to the ground. White haze erupted—blinding the gorge.

  Blood. Mud. Burnt air. Shields came up. Archers recalibrated.

  “Keep elevation! Fire in waves—third line first!”

  Ronen’s voice cut through the chaos. Arrows flew in arcs, slamming into the hidden bunkers.

  A throwing spear hissed through the air— striking a man in the shoulder, embedding deep.

  Then—movement.

  Three enemy soldiers burst from the thickets—running.

  Chased by others in archer garb.

  “Capture them,” Issar commanded calmly.

  “One of them is real.”

  Flanking squads closed in. Two were caught. One fled up the ridge—and was shot down.

  The building they’d come from— a tent shaped like a depot— was in fact a relay and armory.

  Inside: bodies dressed in Republic gear. Blood smeared across canvas. A satchel rested atop mangled flesh.

  Issar pulled away the bloody cloth. Lifted the case.

  The leather ties were still tight. And on the wax seal—a faint but familiar emblem.

  Republic 6th Defense Division. And over it— a red stamp: Supreme War Command of Yandal.

  Issar’s eyes narrowed.

  “…For us to find this…”

  He checked the seal again.

  Too exposed. Too clean.

  “It was meant to be seen.”

  Ronen approached carefully.

  “You mean… they left it on purpose?”

  “No one leaves classified orders at a front post.”

  Issar didn’t reply further.

  Screams still echoed through the gorge.

  Blood. Smoke. Fog. The battlefield shifted like a breathing beast.

  “We won this battle. But whether we won—or were drawn in— is still unclear.”

  He pulled the satchel close.

  “I’ll deliver this myself. Before it reaches high command— we’ll find out why it was left here.”

  He inhaled deeply.

  The smoke. The iron scent of blood. But his eyes did not waver.

  This wasn’t just a battle.

  It was a message.

  Just as he had been sent—

  someone else had reached for him. The operations tent was still.One lamp flickered—its shadow danced across the canvas walls.Issar stood alone, staring at the documents spread out before him.The red seal of Yandal’s Supreme War Command. The unit code of the Republic’s 6th Defense Division. Three encrypted communiqués.

  No dust. No creases. Too perfect.

  “You haven’t submitted the report yet, sir?” Ronen’s voice was low.

  Issar did not answer.

  He traced the ink with his brush.

  The handwriting matched military cipher standards. The content—flawless. And that, he thought, was the problem.

  “If it were truly confidential,” he murmured, “they wouldn’t have left it behind.”

  “They wanted us to find it. Right here.”

  Ronen said nothing. He stood still beside the table.

  “If we don’t report this soon, the inspectorate will step in.”

  Issar paused.

  Then slowly leaned back in his chair.

  A gust of wind made the lamp gutter. A shadow moved on the canvas roof.

  “I will report it. Just not yet.”

  Ronen lowered his gaze.

  He remembered—this was when Issar had begun choosing judgment over command.

  “This isn’t real,” Issar said. His hand rested atop the papers. Long fingers covering the crimson seal.

  “Too clean. Too exact. Perfect handwriting. No damage. No weathering. That doesn’t exist on the front.”

  Ronen offered cautiously:

  “It may not have come from the Republic at all.”

  Issar remained silent.

  His eyes were locked on one sentence at the end of the encrypted page.

  “He will move as designed. All we must do is guide the current.”

  “The current…” Issar murmured. “Who do they mean?”

  Footsteps approached the tent.

  They stopped outside—no knock.

  Just stillness.

  Issar looked up. Ronen turned quietly.

  “The imperial inspector.”

  The door did not open. But the presence lingered.

  A voice, low and cold, slipped through the canvas.

  “Headquarters expects a reply by dawn. Do not let your judgment be—late.”

  The steps faded.

  Issar closed his eyes. His jaw tightened—not in hesitation, but restraint.

  “…I won’t expect them to tell me what I saw.”

  The lamp trembled slightly.

  And now, he understood.

  What he held wasn’t just a document.

  It was a choice—

  deliberately placed in his path.

  And he had not made it.

  Not yet.

  He was, for the moment,

  choosing silence.